The Exploding Malfoys
by Rea
Summary: Ever wished you could watch the Malfoys explode over and over and over again? Wel, now you can! In chapter 8, Draco learns the true power of glaring.
1. Bad Plumbing

Author's Note: This fic was written for my sister, who upon reading HP5   
  
declared, "I wish the Malfoys would just explode or something. So, here we have  
  
  
  
it: the first part of a fic that will hopefully involve Draco and Lucius Malfoy   
  
exploding. Possibly more than once each, in various scenarios. Many thanks   
  
to my friend (you know who you are!) for helping me with the scenario. We really   
  
ought to write together sometime...  
  
Chapter 1: Bad Plumbing  
  
Draco Malfoy leaned idly against the telephone booth that served as the   
  
visitors' entrance to the Ministry of Magic, his hands shoved inside his robes   
  
and his fingers twiddling idly with his wand. Was there, he wondered, a fate   
  
worse than being stuck above ground in the Muggle part of London while his   
  
father was busy down in the annals of the Ministry below? No, he thought as he   
  
watched a pair of muggles with dyed, spiked hair clad in fake leather walk by.   
  
There wasn't. He yawned and watched the passersby with feigned interest. His   
  
father had ordered him not to stray away from the booth and usually, it would   
  
not have been a problem for Malfoy to follow his father's simple request, but   
  
today was somehow different. It was simply so boring out here. Nothing to do,   
  
nothing to see. In a burst of frustration, he wrenched himself away from the   
  
telephone booth and started down the Muggle filled street.   
  
The first time a muggle bumped against him, Draco couldn't help but feel   
  
disgusted and pulled away from him, which only caused him to run into another   
  
muggle who pushed him roughly aside.  
  
"Watch where you're going, runt." Draco turned around to face his addressee and   
  
found himself facing what was probably the fattest person he had ever seen. He   
  
wrinkled his eyes in disgust. "Are you talking to me?" He asked the muggle   
  
unctuously.   
  
"No, he was talking to your mummy, pansy, who do you think he was talking to?" A  
  
second boy replied, pushing himself towards Draco forcefully, but the fat boy   
  
held him back, his squinty little eyes never leaving Draco's face.   
  
"I don't like the looks of you," he said slowly, as though he were speaking with   
  
great effort. He probably was, Draco mused, he didn't look as though intelligent   
  
thought came easily to his kind.   
  
"I imagine not. It must be hard looking at someone who does not resemble an   
  
oversized pig. Makes you feel a bit out of place, doesn't it?" Draco retorted,   
  
taking in the other boys girth. The other boys nostrils flared at this remark   
  
and, momentarily, Draco felt a wave of fear rush through him, similar to the one   
  
he'd felt when the hippogriff had swiped at him.   
  
"Get him, Big D," said one of the other boys, egging him on. "I doubt he'd put   
  
up more of a struggle than any of the other ones." The group of boys laughed   
  
heartily at this remark, 'Big D' included. To Draco's surprise, he reached out   
  
and grasped Draco by the collar, pulling him towards him. Draco winced as the   
  
boy's garlic smelling breath washed over him.   
  
"I-wouldn't-do that, if I were you," he managed with difficulty. "If you knew   
  
who my father was-"   
  
The fat boy just guffawed at him and Draco swallowed with great   
  
nervously. He'd forgotten that his father didn't have that much influence in   
  
the muggle world, still, he could probably get Draco out of any trouble a single   
  
well-placed curse might get him in. He slowly pulled his wand out of his pocket,   
  
hoping Fat Ass wouldn't notice. But he did. The most amazing thing Draco had   
  
ever seen in his life was his tiny little eyes trying to widen on his pudgy   
  
little face. "He's got a-a---" he sputtered, dropping Draco like a hot potato   
  
and backing away.   
  
His friends, however, crowded closer to where Draco lay sprawled on the ground.   
  
"He's got a what?" asked one of the stupider ones, trying to get closer to   
  
Draco.   
  
"Don't go near him, Piers!" 'Big D's' voice sounded panicked, "he's got a gun!"   
  
They all gasped and looked at Draco with some sort of fear in their eyes. Draco   
  
laughed.   
  
"A gun? Is that what you pitiful muggles call it?" He waved his wand in front of   
  
Fat Boy's face.   
  
Unpredictably, Fat Boy's friends began to laugh. "Is that what you're so afraid   
  
of, Dudley?" The one called Piers asked. "A wooden stick? Come on, look at him,   
  
I think I could take him, if you're afraid to, Duds."   
  
The Fat Boy's, Dudley, Draco reminded himself, had turned a bright shade   
  
of magenta and his eyes were still on Draco's face. Draco laughed at Piers. "Of   
  
course. Why should you be afraid of just a stick?" He started to wave it   
  
harmlessly in front of Dudley's face, figuring he could at least play with his   
  
quarry before ending it all.   
  
To his amazement, Draco never finished the wave. Dudley's right hand came out   
  
from his side at an angle and swiped the side of Draco's face in what Vernon   
  
Dursely would have recognized as a state of the art right hook. Draco fell to   
  
the ground, the umpf that escaped him barely managed to cover the amount of   
  
surprise he felt.   
  
"There, I told you he wouldn't be that hard," Piers told Dudley. Draco, however,   
  
was not out of the fight. He sat back up, wiped the blood away from his nose  
  
and shouted the only curse that occurred to him at the moment.   
  
"Tarantallegra!" he shouted and, to his amusement, Dudley's legs and arms began   
  
to dance wildly. He would have loved to watch, but the looks the other boys were   
  
throwing him told Draco this would not be a wise idea. His father could, after   
  
all, only get him out of so much trouble before it looked suspicious. So he took   
  
the next best option: he ran for it.  
  
Running down the streets of London on a Saturday afternoon is not the   
  
easiest activity in the world and Draco found it only marginally more difficult   
  
than the average person, as he was dressed conspicuously in robes, had no clue   
  
what any of the street corner lights meant and half of his head felt like it was   
  
swollen to the size of a watermelon. He dashed across a narrow street, barely   
  
avoiding death by a double-decker bus and scanned the streets frantically for a   
  
good place to hide. Even he knew he couldn't evade the hefty boys who were   
  
chasing him forever. A door that said 'Public Toilet' on it caught his eye and   
  
Draco grinned. Of course, it was perfect. He could lock it and the oafs would   
  
never think to look in there. He made a dash for it and had the door closed and  
  
locked before Dudley's gang rounded the corner.   
  
"Where'd he go?" He heard one of them ask. "Who knows?" replied another.   
  
"We've just got to keep following. We'll find the shrimp eventually and we'll   
  
get him for whatever it was he did to Dudley with his stick thingy."  
  
It was all Draco could do not to laugh as he heard the group stamped by.   
  
"Really," he muttered to himself. "It's too bad those boys are muggles. They'd   
  
almost be an improvement on Crabbe and Goyle. He leaned casually against the   
  
toilet and jumped when it flushed loudly. "What the-" he hadn't meant to press   
  
the lever at all but there it was flushing anyway. He peered down into the bowl   
  
and then laughed as he saw nothing. He turned away and was about to leave the WC   
  
when, suddenly the toilet erupted in a loud bang and Draco found himself   
  
covered, head to toe with horrible brown masses. He screamed but even then the   
  
toilet wasn't finished. It erupted again, this time exploding the whole of the   
  
public toilet and Draco disappeared in the darkness.  
  
*********************************  
  
The Magical Police stood guarding the scene from any curious muggle   
  
gaffers but even the muggles were not so daft as to miss the tension that went   
  
through all of their shoulders as a tall, pale man walked through their midst.   
  
"Where is he?" he asked in a cold voice.   
  
"Er, we found him over here, sir. He appears to be covered with muck, not to   
  
mention the fact that he seems to have, well" the man paused.   
  
"Well, what?" Lucius Malfoy pressed.   
  
"Exploded, sir."  
  
"Exploded?" Lucius repeated, disbelieving his ears. "From what?"  
  
"We believe it was this," the policeman pulled out the paper and plastic   
  
remains of a device that was wholly unlike any Lucius had ever seen before.  
  
"What is it?" he snapped.  
  
"We aren't sure sir but we have found it in other toilets when we've been   
  
on patrol to look for possible regurgitating toilets. We took it to the muggle   
  
artifacts depar-"  
  
"Spare me the details and get to the point already," Lucius hissed, barely   
  
able to control his anger.  
  
"It's called a cherry bomb and is very popular around muggle children   
  
trying for a bit of mischief."  
  
Lucius' eyes got icier. "I want the muggles responsible found. And dealt   
  
with." He turned and walked away with a flourish, leaving the magical police and   
  
the charred remains of his son behind. 


	2. Under the Parlor floor

Author's Note: Sorry about the long delay here, folks, but my writing style   
  
seems to be something along the lines of "Write while you're bored in class".   
  
It's been a while since I've been bored in class and had an opportunity to write   
  
as well as an idea of what TO write. So here it is, chapter two: Lucius' turn.  
  
The Exploding Malfoys-Chapter 2: Under the Parlor Floor.  
  
The carriage stopped outside the gates of the castle and a haggard looking man   
  
stepped out of it, his robes hanging in tatters around him. Reaching into his   
  
moneybag, he pulled out a silver sickle and flung it at the front of the coach,   
  
where the driver sat. The driver caught it, bit it (much to the passenger's   
  
consternation), nodded, whipped the winged beasts and the carriage flew off.  
  
Lucius Malfoy turned to face the iron gate surrounding his home, his   
  
castle. For ten months he had been separated from it and, for those ten months,   
  
he had been interned at Azkaban, guarded no longer by dementors but by fool   
  
wizard guards who feared their prisoners more than they were feared. It gave the   
  
prisoners a nice little advantage and Malfoy had used it to his full advantage.   
  
For ten months, he had been polite, respectful and even differential to his   
  
guards. It took all his practiced years of duplicity to sit in that grimy, dark   
  
cell inquiring after the guard's grandchildren to break down their wariness   
  
and fear, until the day he simply reached through the bars while talking to him   
  
and broke his neck, took his wand and escaped.  
  
Now he was back home and the bitterness that had grown in his heart in the   
  
past ten months burst onto his face in a smile as he raised his wand and said   
  
"Mort sangria!" The gates swung open and Malfoy walked through them, home at   
  
last.  
  
  
  
No one greeted him as he walked through the doors, so he slammed the doors   
  
loudly behind him in irritation and in hope that someone would get the message.   
  
He flung his cloak on a chair and glanced around him, noticing the pictures   
  
whispering and moving excitedly at his sudden entrance. His eyes narrowed and he   
  
approached one and rapped on it angrily, startling the old wizard who had been   
  
on the verge of leaving his painting.  
  
"You," he said sharply. The man in the picture jumped back in his frame.   
  
"Oh! Master Lucius is back! How wonderful! You wouldn't believe..."  
  
"Quiet," Lucius cut him off harshly, "There are some paintings missing   
  
from the wall, some of them your neighbors. Where are they?" His voice was   
  
hoarse and the picture seemed to wince as he spoke.  
  
"Er, well, you see sir..." the picture began nervously only to be   
  
interrupted by the clack of hurried footsteps rushing into the main hall.  
  
"Lucius!" Narcissa burst into the hall, "About time you came back. Was it   
  
really necessary to wait ten months before breaking out of that prison and with   
  
ministry wizards buzzing around here like the Dark Lord Himself were-"  
  
Lucius waved his hand at here and smiled as gently as he could. "Now,   
  
Narcissa, you know I could not just escape whenever I desired. This sort of   
  
thing takes time and planning, none of which happens in an eye blink. In any   
  
case, I had to wait and see if there was any official way I could get out of   
  
this, clear the family name." He sighed, melodramatically. "But no, the name is   
  
sullied forever. Me! A prison escapee, can you believe it? No no, it's just as   
  
well, I can't stay anyway."  
  
Narcissa's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Not stay? Are you mad? You   
  
must stay! You have no idea what these past months have been like!"  
  
Lucius suddenly lost the careful tolerance he had had of his wife and   
  
snapped at her. "For the last ten months I have been in Azkaban so you'll do   
  
very well to forget what you've been through, Madame."   
  
That got her for a moment, but Narcissa quickly shrugged it off. "Hm, yes   
  
I know it's bad. But honestly! Those ministry wizards seem to think you have the   
  
whole dark wizardry supply closet hidden under our parlor room floor." Her voice   
  
was deceptively casual and Lucius knew something was up.  
  
"Why did Ministry wizards have any reason to suspect the existence of dark   
  
materials in our parlor, Narcissa? They've searched before."  
  
She shrugged. " I don't know, but it was very disconcerting to have them   
  
here." Lucius narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously, then spun on his heel and   
  
walked into the parlor, over the floorboards that were covered in concealing   
  
spells to hide the forbidden objects within. Any of these objects would have   
  
been enough to have both of them arrested; even without them being death eaters   
  
and the family name would have been up in smoke. "They didn't find anything did   
  
they?" He called to Narcissa in the main hall.  
  
"Not that I knew of...how could I have possibly been in the parlor the   
  
entire time they were searching? They were all over the house! I was trying to   
  
make sure none of them tried to make off with our jewelry...lord knows that Arthur   
  
Weasley could stand to pawn some."  
  
Lucius felt him involuntarily stiffen at this remark. "Weasley was here?"   
  
He snarled. "That figures, he's always wanted to get his hands on something,   
  
anything to give that muggle-loving idiot some prestige, or at least a bit of   
  
gold to feed his family." Narcissa didn't reply and Lucius walked over the   
  
floorboards with care, feeling for any sort of tell-tale change in them. He   
  
found none and immediately began casting the counter spells. Gradually, a couple   
  
of stairs leading downwards began to form in the floor and Lucius smiled,   
  
patting himself on the back at his creativity. "Well, everything appears to   
  
be in good working order," he called to his wife.  
  
"That's good, dear," she replied idly, and it didn't occur to him to ask   
  
her what she meant with that tone in her voice. He reached the bottom of the   
  
stars without so much of a tumble, murmured Lumos and the hidden chamber was lit   
  
for him to take inventory. As he approached the first shelf, he noticed a   
  
strange, acrid smell that had not been there before and wrinkled his forehead at   
  
it. "Narcissa, do you smell that---" he started to call, when suddenly, the air   
  
around him seemed to catch fire and exploded in a defining boom. The last thing   
  
Lucius remembered was the floor caving in above him.  
  
****  
  
Narcissa stayed in the hallway until the smoke cleared and she could be   
  
assured there was no more dust in there, then she calmly went to the fire, threw   
  
in some powder, requested the Ministry's Auror division. Quickly, she worked   
  
herself up into a frazzled state and began speaking frantically to the first   
  
wizard who appeared in the fire. "Oh it was horrible! He...he...he's dead! I heard   
  
this awful noise and went downstairs and I saw him in the parlor, all burnt and   
  
disgusting and it's..." she burst into tears and could see the puzzled expression   
  
the wizard's face and listened with glee as he instructed a crew to   
  
get out to the Malfoy residence as soon as possible because something had   
  
happened.   
  
Five puzzled wizards arrived at her door, which she answered in a seemingly   
  
hysterical state and waved her arms towards the parlor, not daring to go in   
  
herself, crying "It's too horrible! I can't believe it!" Twenty minutes later,  
  
the officials left, directing a magical gurney in front of them, where the   
  
burnt remains of Lucius lay.   
  
She turned away from the door, after shutting it and looked at the parlor   
  
curiously. "Why not?" She whispered, and went in. In the middle of the floor was   
  
a crater that would take more than your average magic to get out. It was burnt   
  
and the remains of dark magic materials lay all around, smoldering. Surely a   
  
clean up crew would be around after this. If not, she would call the ministry   
  
and demand one. Though it would involve more pretending to be sad and hysterical   
  
and the like, it would be worth it to get that mess cleaned up. She sniffed at   
  
the burnt curtains. "Blacken the family name, indeed!" She scoffed and walked  
  
out. 


	3. Higherlevel potions

Exploding Malfoys: Chapter Three: Higher-level Potions  
  
Author's Note & Disclaimer: Hi, there. Third part of the Exploding Malfoys. This one goes out to Kyra Invictus Black, my only reviewer (other than my sister, that is () I'll certainly give your idea some thought. So anyway. Enjoy! I also don't own this.  
  
Most people think of hell as a place they go after they die, but then again, most people don't have Snape for potions. Harry sighed and sat down at a chair in the back of the classroom, his usual spot and glanced around him. This is it, he thought. It was just him and Hermione versus the slytherins. The rest of the Gryffindors had said a fond farewell to potions but Hermione and Harry, she armed with her desire to keep all career options open and he with an eye towards being an auror, had hung doggedly on. Malfoy entered the room and as soon as he saw Hermione and Harry a grin spread across his face. "So Potty and the mudblood are still here," he said in his nastiest voice. "Guess you can't weed them all out, can you?"  
It took all of Harry's self-control (and Hermione's arm) to keep his wand at his side and respond only by saying, "Nice to see you too, Malfoy. Too bad your sidekicks couldn't join us. And watch who you call 'mudblood'."  
At that timely moment, Snape burst into the room and stepped out in front of the class, surveying each person in turn. "Well, well, well," he said slowly, "You are my NEWTs potions class." Surprised, Harry glanced around and saw there were only 15 students max in the dungeon, no more. He swallowed, a but nervously. Weeding out, indeed. "These next two years will not be easy ones for you the," he paused before continuing sardonically, "cream-of-the-crop at Hogwarts." His roving eyes met Harry's and his lips curled into a sneer while Harry quickly hid the snort that had been bursting out of his mouth. As thought the first 5 years had been easy. "That said, we will begin the year by doing a brief review." He waved his wand and instructions for a swelling potion appeared on the blackboard. "Let's see how much you've retained since we last enjoyed each other's company." He said the word enjoyed as though he really meant something like 'torture'.  
Harry bent over his cauldron, keeping one eye on the instructions and worked, determined not to give Snape a reason to bother him again. Whatever miracle had landed him an O in potions, he didn't want to ruin his opportunity, no matter how miserable Snape made it for him.  
Snape, for his part, had not changed his methods at all. He patrolled the classroom, peering into cauldrons, making sarcastic remarks to the students he hated, saying nothing to those he merely disliked, nodding slightly to those he felt a bit more inclined towards, and generally disrupting his students ability to concentrate. He went by Malfoy's simmering cauldron without so much as a glance, telling Malfoy that his potion was perfect. Harry heard Hermione snort under her breath and allowed his eyes to leave his potion to look at Hermione, he leaned over and muttered into his ear, "Since when his black, billowing smoke the sign of a perfect potion?" Harry glanced furtively at Malfoy's cauldron and his mouth dropped open in surprise. Malfoy was mixing his potion with a satisfied smirk on his face, oblvious to the smoke pouring out of it.  
  
"Potter!" Harry jerked back to his own cauldron. "What are you doing?"  
"Er..just.looking at Malfoy's cauldron, sir."  
  
Snape snarled at him. "You'd do well to watch your own cauldron, Potter. Your potion needs more help than staring at anyone elses can give." With that, Snape swept over to glare at Hermione's potion (whose perfection only added to Snape's bad mood) and Harry turned back to his own potion just in time to prevent the whole concoction from burning.  
Suddenly, just as Snape reached the part of the room farthest from Malfoy's caudron, Malfoy's potion gave off a loud belching sound and then began to sweel up in a bubble. "Professor!" Malfoy called nervously, "Professor, something's wrong with my potion!" But before Snape could turn around, Malfoy's potion exploded and the entire class ducked behind their desks to shield themselves from the mess. When they looked up again, Malfoy, who had caught the full brunt of the explosion, had begun to swell. First his head expanded like a grotesque balloon, but as the potion dripped off of his face, his chest, hands and arms all began to swell and inflate until he resembled an overlarge white sausage. "Professor!" Malfoy cried and Snape ran over to him as the students peered out from behind their desks in horrid fascination. Snape shouted out a spell that was incomprehensible over Malfoy's roaring but nothing happened. Showing the most concern Snape had ever shown for a student, he shouted, "to the infirmary!" and began to squeeze Malfoy out the narrow dungeon door.  
But it was too late.  
  
Malfoy's head had become so large, so quickly that it popped, showering Snape, the door and the dungeon with all sorts of innards of Malfoy's head.  
For a moment, silence reigned in the classroom. Then, Hermione straightened up and asked tentatively, "Professor Snape?" but before anyone answered, Hermione turned a peculiar shade of green and ducked back behind the desk. "Hermione, what is it?" Harry asked.  
"Brains," she said weakly, but her voice carried and the remainding pupils jumped up to see for themselves.  
"Ewwww!!" said a Ravenclaw student, "Malfoy brains!"  
"Who knew they'd be so.pink?" added a Hufflepuff.  
Harry felt his stomach clinch uncomfortably as he saw the massive, swollen remains of Malfoy blocking the doorway. Snape was still stading there, his arms holding his bloodied upper body up against the doorframe. Slowly, Snape turned around and Harry caught for the briefest of seconds a bit of a satisfied smile on his lips and a mischievious glint in Snape's eyes, then it was gone.  
The class' murmur died off as Snape glared at them. "50 points from Gryffindor!" Snape shouted suddenly.  
Both Hermione's and Harry's mouths dropped open. "But Professor! We didn't do anything!" Hermione protested.  
"Yeah, Malfoy's the stupid git who got himself blown up!" Harry added.  
Snape didn't respond, opting instead to vanish Malfoy's remains. Harry burned with the unfairness of it all as Snape dismissed the class early and pushed them all out of his dungeon. 'Fourteen,' Harry thought, 'that's all that's left of the class..' He couldn't help but wonder how much smaller the class would get as the year wore on. 


	4. Fire and Brimstone

Author's Note: Well, this chapter came out of the blue, but Malfoy does still   
  
die in it, even though he does take a very long time to get there. I love it   
  
when intolerance destroys itself.  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, or Lucius, or Dobby, or Malfoy or Narcissa   
  
or the manor they lived in.  
  
Chapter 4: Fire and Brimstone  
  
The doorbell rang, a loud and monotonous sound that reverberated   
  
throughout the house. "Dobby!" Lucius Malfoy shouted once it had rang three   
  
times, "The door!" That's when he remembered that he no longer had an house-elf,   
  
thanks to meddling, I-vanquished-the-Dark-Lord Harry Potter. He snarled and got   
  
up from his chair where he had been plotting more clever ways to get rid of   
  
Dumbledore, Harry Potter and a whole slew of other people he didn't like.   
  
"What?" He snarled at the two people, one male, the other female, both of them   
  
wearing formal muggle attire, standing outside his door. This completely failed   
  
to make them frightened, something that only irritated him even more. The male   
  
spoke first.  
  
"Hello! We're sorry to disturb you, but my colleague," the female smiled   
  
graciously, "and I were just in the neighborhood spreading the word of our   
  
Lord."   
  
Now the female stepped forward, waving a small black book in front of Malfoy's   
  
face. "Have you accepted the Lord into your heart?"  
  
Whatever Malfoy had been expecting this wasn't it. "The Lord?" he   
  
stammered, momentarily forgetting his irritation, "Which Lord do you mean?" He   
  
stood there in surprise as the muggles trampled over each other's words to   
  
describe their Lord.  
  
"Why, THE Lord of course."  
  
"The All-knowing!"  
  
"The All-powerful!"  
  
"The one who will was cursed by all but came back to life from death-"   
  
"Promising to set forth a new order of glory for the righteous and   
  
deserving-"  
  
"His chosen people!"  
  
"On this Earth!"  
  
They finished together: "The Lord!"  
  
They finished their tirade and looked at Malfoy expectantly while he tried   
  
to figure out exactly where they'd found out about the Lord. "You know about the   
  
Lord?"  
  
The missionaries seemed surprised. "Why of course we know about the Lord,"  
  
  
  
the woman replied. "He is for all to have who read his book." She waved the   
  
black book at Malfoy again and he stared at it. "What!? You have one of those   
  
too? But I thought I was the one with whom he entrusted his story."  
  
They looked shocked. "Why, no, of course not. Anyone can have the good  
  
book."  
  
"Oh," that made sense, Malfoy thought. Lord Voldemort was much too clever   
  
to entrust the only copy of his diary to one single person. "Excellent, now I   
  
can try to give another copy of it to unsuspecting people in order to aide the   
  
Lord's return."  
  
The missionaries looked pleased. "Would you like a copy?"  
  
"Certainly, my copy was ruined by some brat." He took the copy of it and   
  
could almost not contain his excitement.  
  
"Ah," the man nodded wisely. "The heathens." Malfoy looked at him in   
  
surprise. Blood-traitors, mugggle-lovers and mudbloods were all known terms to  
  
him but he had yet to hear this one. "Heathens, you call them?"  
  
"Yes," the man continued. "Those who have not accepted the Lord into his  
  
heart and submitted their lives to his service in hopes that one day he might   
  
reign in our world."  
  
"Yes, I know exactly the type you are talking about." Lucius forgot that   
  
these were muggles he was talking to. "They think that they're so great because   
  
they accept all, regardless of their origins. But you know what it's really  
  
doing? It's bringing down the standards and soon we'll all be on their-" he   
  
searched for the right word. "-Heathanistic level!"  
  
"Exactly!" The woman was positively glistening with excitement. Lucius   
  
could only imagine that they hadn't had a very receptive audience thus far. "It   
  
is our mission, as Believers, to bring the truth to these people or else they   
  
will burn for ever in eternal torment!"  
  
Lucius was intrigued. "Really? Burn in eternal torment? I hadn't heard of  
  
that curse. Is it similar to the cruciatus curse?"  
  
The missionaries looked at Lucius in confusion. "Er, curse? Well..." the   
  
man looked at the woman and she answered, "It is, in a way, like a curse. I   
  
mean, it can't be a blessing!"  
  
The three of them laughed. "Well, I would love to stay here a bit longer and   
  
discuss ways of tormenting the-heathen, you called them?" The missionaries   
  
nodded. "But I've got to go talk to the Lord and ask him why he changed our   
  
modus operandi without telling me first. I am, you see, one of his most trusted   
  
servants." He smiled at them warmly, patting his wrist and they just looked at   
  
him, all smiles. "Do stop by again, we'll have some tea, and you can tell me all   
  
about the curses you've developed to use against blood-traitors and mud bloods."  
  
"Oh yes! Certainly!" The missionaries waved good-bye and Lucius shut the   
  
door, feeling the sort of satisfaction he usually felt only after hatching a   
  
good plan to torment muggles. MUGGLES! The word exploded in his head like a bomb   
  
and he glanced down at the book he was holding. It certainly looked like   
  
Voldemort's diary. He rushed into his study, grabbed a quill and some ink and   
  
opened it up. As his eyes fell upon the page he felt a rush of surprise. There   
  
was already writing in it! And not just writing! Print! About Love! And Faith!   
  
And souls being saved and how much the Lord, God, Jesus Christ loved everyone!   
  
They weren't new Death Eaters!   
  
Suddenly Lucius felt very unclean. He had just commiserated with MUGGLES   
  
about the problems of untrue wizards and mudbloods!  
  
****  
  
The missionaries left the manor feeling very pleased with themselves. It   
  
wasn't easy being a missionary in Britain and they had been completely prepared   
  
to spend a whole day without finding a single person willing to listen to them,   
  
much less agree with them. Floating on the wings of success they decided to call   
  
it a day when a thought occurred to the woman. "What do you suppose he meant by   
  
mudbloods and curses? That was really metaphorical speech for 'heathens' and   
  
'damnation', wasn't it?"  
  
"Of course it was," the man answered without hesitation. At that moment,   
  
both of them turned to look back at the manor, just in time to see an owl fly   
  
out of a window. They also noted suddenly that the high fence around the manor   
  
consisted of images of serpents and a Latin inscription. The woman gasped.   
  
"Serpents! The devil's creature! And Latin!" She looked at her colleague   
  
worriedly. "You don't suppose he's catholic, do you?"  
  
The man laughed. "Catholic? Absolutely not. England did away with the   
  
Catholics long ago and he definitely wasn't Irish. Besides, that Latin   
  
inscription means 'Power to the Dark Lord and may he bring supremacy to Wizards   
  
of pureblood.'" This took a moment to sink in but when it did, the missionaries   
  
stared at each other in shock. "That," the woman said slowly, "is much worse   
  
than Catholic."  
  
The man nodded. "Indeed. There is only one thing we can do: get rid of   
  
this male-witch! We need torches! Stakes! And Pitchforks!" The missionaries   
  
rushed off.  
  
****  
  
Hours later, Malfoy was sitting in the dining room eating the dinner   
  
Narcissa had grudgingly conjured up when, for the second time that day, the   
  
doorbell rang. Lucius threw down his napkin and strode up to the window next to   
  
the front door. It was, as he had expected, the missionaries. Only this time   
  
they weren't alone. They had brought with them a whole host of other similarly   
  
dressed muggles, all clutching either pitchforks, torches, or bibles. Lucius   
  
thought he could make out a battering ram. "Oh, no." Apparently he wasn't the   
  
only one who had realized he wasn't dealing with who he thought he was. Grabbing   
  
his wand, opened the front door, just as the missionaries with the battering ram   
  
were swinging it back in order to knock down the door and it hit him square in   
  
the chest, knocking both his wand from him and the air out of him. "Get him!"   
  
The missionaries cried. Lucius strained for his wand and touched it with the   
  
tips of his fingers when a missionary tripped on his arm and landed on him,   
  
dropping the torch on the very old and expensive rug the Malfoy's had on the   
  
entry hall floor. Combined with the dust and sweat of a thousand years, it   
  
immediately caught fire. Screams erupted and Malfoy could feel the heat spread   
  
around him and, in desperation, he reached for his wand again so he could get   
  
rid of the fire when he saw that the stupid muggle had knocked it away. His   
  
sense of self-preservation kicked in and Lucius jumped up and made for the door,   
  
but the fire and already spread to his long robes and, besides that, the   
  
missionaries, in their haste to abandon their mission to rid the world of evil,   
  
had completely stampeded and blocked the doorway. The fire spread to the long   
  
curtains, then the oil lamps on the walls and soon, the entire manor was   
  
consumed in fire.  
  
****  
  
"And tonight on the six o'clock news: The railroad strike has reached epic   
  
proportions in some parts of the country, leaving thousands of travelers   
  
stranded," the news reporter said in a cheery look-I'm-on-TV voice. Someone off-  
  
screen handed him a piece of paper. "Oh, this just in: A fire has consumed a   
  
historical manor early this evening, killing at least thirty people, including   
  
the owners. Investigators have yet to find the exact cause of the fire, but   
  
local townspeople said that they'd heard rumors that a witch hunt was on for the   
  
evening." The man chuckled. "Witch hunt, indeed. Well, let's go to Jim Jenson  
  
for the weather..." 


	5. Public Service Announcement

Author's Note: I seem to be on a roll recently, but these good ideas just keep coming to me. First off, a couple of comments:  
  
To the reviewer who was not quite brave enough to leave a name, I have only two things to say: "Hark! Forest sounds!" and watch your language or else I'll have to get out the Life Boy.  
  
As for Quasar: Ah, Douglas Adams. RIP. Best author ever!  
  
Chapter 4: Public Service Announcement  
  
Scene: A television screen, the rim of which can be seen quite readily, showing   
  
nothing but static. Suddenly it whitens out and words appear across the screen:   
  
"THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED TO BRING YOU THE FOLLOWING PUBLIC SERVICE   
  
ANNOUNCEMENT." A white room appears and way in the back of it, a small door   
  
opens and a man, dressed completely in black, steps out of it and walks towards   
  
the screen. To show how big the room is, he starts off relatively small and gets   
  
bigger as he nears the camera. His footsteps reverberate throughout the   
  
completely white room.  
  
Man (speaking in BBC English): "It has often been said that the pen is mightier   
  
than the sword and time and time again this has been proved correct. Words can bring   
  
down the mightiest men in a single stroke or even reveal a fool where there was   
  
thought to be wisdom. However, when using the gift of writing, it is important   
  
to keep certain rules in mind.  
  
First of all, correct spelling. Although English is a tricky language to spell   
  
due to the fact that so many words sound like one another ('waist' and 'waste',   
  
for example), a moment of quiet reflection before writing will prevent this   
  
mistake. We also tend to repeat letters quite frequently, as in the word   
  
'speech', which is not spelled S-P-E-A-C-H, with no other reason than the fact   
  
it seemed like a good idea at the time. Be careful with this rule, however,   
  
because sometimes we don't use it. Words like 'excuse' have only one 's' and is   
  
followed by another English quirk: the silent 'e'.   
  
The silent 'e' had been known to cause breakdowns among writers in the days   
  
before the word processor and spell check, however, today, it is nowhere near as  
  
frightening. But, once again, there are exceptions to this rule and not every   
  
word is followed by a silent e. For instance, the word 'standard' has no 'e' at   
  
the end and is therefore 'standards' in the plural.   
  
Another difficulty facing writers using the English language is that of finding   
  
the right word that expresses the deep, soul-wrenching concept the writer is   
  
trying to get across. Hate or loathe? Kill or murder? The simple word   
  
'incompetent' has over 30 synonyms:  
  
  
  
Amateur, amateurish, awkward, bungling, bush, bush league, clumsy,   
  
disqualified, floundering, helpless, inadequate, incapable, incapacitated,   
  
ineffectual, inefficient, ineligible, inept, inexperienced, inexpert,   
  
insufficient, maladroit, raw, skill-less, unable, unadapted, uncool,   
  
unequipped, unfit, unfitted, unhandy, uninitiated, unproficient,   
  
unqualified, unskilled, untrained, useless.   
  
It is no wonder that many a writer has met his doom trying to find the proper   
  
word to express his meaning. Sometimes, however, the English language fails in   
  
its duty to provide us with the proper cutthroat word and we have only vulgar   
  
words left to describe our meanings (i.e., wanker).  
  
  
  
Just how acceptable is foul language it today's modern society? Some are of the   
  
opinion that somehow, there is just no other way to get your meaning across when   
  
you are angry because swear words have a certain 'shock value' to them that   
  
leaves the person they are directed to so shocked he cannot even muster a   
  
response. This would have some merit, were swear words used infrequently, which   
  
they are not today. Today, cuss words are a dime a dozen and instead of showing   
  
the daring and rebellious nature of the user, they show him to be a rather   
  
immature, unkempt fool. To put it simply, an idiot.   
  
Writing is not all words and language, however, but also a mixture of ideas,   
  
sometimes mundane, sometimes brilliant. These ideas are what really make a story   
  
sparkle and make any writer, no matter the age or skill with a dictionary, worth   
  
reading. They can make you laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it or cry when   
  
your favorite characters die or otherwise part company. They can return you to   
  
the world looking at it as though for the first time, aware of so many new   
  
concepts you would have only dreamed of before. This is perhaps what makes   
  
writing the most frightening for authors because, as Johann Wolfgang von Goethe   
  
said, "If you would create something, you must be something." Writers, whose   
  
craft is creating both worlds, ideas and prose, must always stand for something   
  
and try, whether through comedy, tragedy or one of the thousands of genres in   
  
between, show what they stand for and what they believe. It is for this reason   
  
that writers, more than any other group have been so persecuted. They have no   
  
shield to hide behind, and no weapon but their words."  
  
The man ends abruptly, bows to the camera, does an about face and walks back to   
  
the door in the distance, his footsteps once again reverberating throughout the   
  
room. The door squeaks loudly as he opens it and he closes it silently.  
  
The white room stays on the screen for a moment before fading back to static and   
  
a voiceover announces, "This concludes the Public Service Announcement and   
  
you will now be returned to your regularly scheduled program."  
  
The view pulls back to reveal the entire TV set and finally, Lucius Malfoy   
  
sitting in front of it, with an angry look on his face. Suddenly, without   
  
warning, and before he can get a single nasty word out, his head spontaneously   
  
combusts, leaving naught but blood and brains splattered on the back of his   
  
chair. 


	6. Overstudied

Author's Note: At last! An update. What can I say, I was studying (or rather,   
  
not studying) for my finals and this wandered into my head-a perfect   
  
distraction!  
  
The Exploding Malfoys-Chapter 6: Overstudied  
  
Draco Malfoy wrinkled his forehead and pressed his hands to his eyes in an   
  
attempt to quell the intense burning sensation they'd acquired after 10 hours of   
  
non-stop studying. Only a complete nincompoop (or a Weasley) would have missed   
  
the telltale signs of final exam season at Hogwarts. The Slytherin Common room   
  
was filled with students crouched over their books, mumbling to themselves and   
  
rocking back and forth in their chairs. How he HATED exam season. He hated it   
  
like-like-he rallied his mind to find the perfect comparison-like a bowtruckle   
  
hates people who disturb the its home-tree! Draco groaned. Yeah, he definitely   
  
had Care of Magical Creatures on the brain. He banged his head on his book. This   
  
was a mistake. Had Malfoy's head not been crammed with interesting tidbits on   
  
the Augery, Bowtruckle, Doxy and Lethifold, he would have remembered that since   
  
his third year, they'd been using the Monster Book of Monsters (to a minimal   
  
degree of success).  
  
CHOMP!  
  
The book closed around Malfoy's head and digestive juices began to pour out of   
  
the inner spine of the book. Draco let out a muffled scream but this juts made   
  
the book clamp down harder. "Aargh!" The binding of the book wrapped itself   
  
around Malfoy's neck and instinctively he began to thrash his head around in a   
  
blind panic, hoping someone in the common room would notice his odd behavior and   
  
rush to his rescue.   
  
No one did. They were too busy studying. The few who did see something   
  
slightly unusual out of their corners of their eyes attributed it to pre-exam   
  
nerves before turning their attention back to five years worth of history notes   
  
that seemed to drift more in and out of sleep than centuries past.  
  
Malfoy continued his struggle. Air was becoming dear. He opened his mouth   
  
and tried to breath. A noxious liquid entered his lungs instead, causing him to   
  
experience not only asphyxiation but drowning as well. He tried to cough but   
  
without air, his lungs couldn't expand enough to clear them. He twisted around,   
  
ran smack into someone or something and fell over onto the floor. "Aaargh!" he   
  
screamed again. Draco placed his hands over the book as green, hazy spots   
  
started to obstruct his view of dark nothingness. He whacked the cover, kicking   
  
and writhing.   
  
Amid this noise, the steady buzz of studying went on unhampered.  
  
Draco's fingers grasped the spine of the book at last, went rigged for a   
  
second-perhaps he would succeed in calming the book down!-then limp. A loud   
  
crunching sound could be heard from inside the book, had anyone chosen to listen   
  
for it. No blood oozed out; the monster book soaked up every drop then moved   
  
down his neck and slurping sounds revealed the book found this particularly   
  
delectable. It made a move for the shoulders but stopped. They were too wide for   
  
the book to swallow whole. Besides that, the book preferred live prey and its   
  
quarry's pulse had just stopped. Cold blood tended to clump and clog the   
  
digestive track. It released its grip on what was Draco and scurried off under   
  
the table, between some students, and then over to where some high backed chairs   
  
were. Sated it for now, it would soon be hungry again and it waited for more.   
  
And more was sure to come. 


	7. Never Tempt a Ravenclaw

Disclaimer: I've been slacking in this area lately and I'm sorry. So I just   
  
thought I'd reiterate the fact that I don't own this.  
  
Exploding Malfoys, Chapter 7: Never Tempt a Ravenclaw  
  
There exists in the wizarding world a dearth of knowledge about the muggle   
  
world. The reasons for this are many. If you are from an ancient wizarding   
  
family, you'll probably feel little need to know exactly why light bulbs were   
  
invented and by whom. Usually, the only thing that will catch your interest when   
  
it comes to light bulbs is hearing their inventor (Thomas Alva Edison) referred   
  
to as "The Wizard of Menlo Park." This nickname, coupled with the odd middle   
  
name most wizards associate only with the wizarding world, has made several well   
  
intentioned wizards and witches petition their governments to put a stop to this   
  
blatant disregard for wizarding secrecy laws. This mistake, however, has had   
  
little impact on the wizarding community as whole.  
  
Not so their ignorance of explosives. To be specific, dynamite. The great   
  
thing about dynamite is that it comes in so many shapes and styles to suit any   
  
purpose. From the traditional stick form to the more common round ball (seen   
  
mostly in muggle cartoons), dynamite remained a mystery to most wizards.   
  
At Hogwarts, the Muggle Studies class had a whole section on dynamite and   
  
other muggle explosives that caused the students taking it to roam the halls   
  
starry-eyed for days, dreaming of muggle explosive power (or fearing it, as the   
  
case may be).  
  
Draco was not one of these students. When he selected new subjects for his   
  
third year, Muggle Studies never even crossed his mind as being a viable option.   
  
He (and his father) preferred real heavyweight wizarding courses, like   
  
Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures. Nothing had   
  
disappointed him more to see Magical Creatures taught by that buffoon Hagrid and   
  
become a complete waste of time but the other two were decidedly useful. He   
  
leaned against the wall smugly while waiting for the Ancient runes professor to   
  
show up. He had definitely made the right course selections. Both Ancient Runes   
  
and Arithmancy were filled with arcane knowledge he could use to his personal   
  
benefit. His reflections were suddenly interrupted by a hurried whisper. "There   
  
he is, that one!" Draco looked over at a group of forth year Ravenclaws huddled   
  
near by. "He's the one who's responsible for taking away so many house points   
  
last year." A snarl curled up on Draco's lips as his hand went to his prefect   
  
badge and he strolled over towards them. "Got a problem, Ravenclaws?" He   
  
demanded imperiously. Half of them jumped in surprise.   
  
"No," the smallest one answered forcefully and failed to shirk when Draco   
  
leveled his gaze at him. Draco sneered. No one talked about him behind his back   
  
and got away with it.  
  
"Good. Because if you do, I'm sure I could arrange for Professor Snape to   
  
give you a detention or two." Having fully exercised his prefect powers, he   
  
turned and went into Ancient Runs, fully convinced he had cowed them.  
  
The upstart Ravenclaws did not leave a lasting impression on his mind;   
  
such things rarely did. Draco was rapidly considering threats to his authority   
  
to be the norm instead of the exceptions and with the year's first Quidditch   
  
match coming up; Draco had no time to think about anything besides Quidditch. He   
  
was determined that Slytherin would not only defeat Gryffindor and win the Cup   
  
but that they would completely destroy them. If a couple Weasley's and Harry   
  
Potter ended up in the infirmary (or dead), so much the better. The Slytherin   
  
team was ready and they had trained more for this match than any other. As Draco   
  
mounted his broom and lifted up into the sky the morning of the match, he felt   
  
in the core of his being that this would be it, their chance, HIS chance.   
  
The balls were released, the game began and Draco scoured the pitch for   
  
any sign of the snitch, keeping only half an eye on the rest of the game.  
  
This was unfortunate. Had he paid attention to all that was happening, he   
  
might have noticed a strange occurrence. A bludger Goyle had been chasing   
  
disappeared for a full thirty seconds and Goyle hovered over the area, looking   
  
denser than usual until it finally reappeared, now floating above the crowd. He   
  
grinned, pleased with his find then turned to look for Potter. The team was   
  
under strict orders to concentrate on knocking him out of the game first. Potter   
  
just happened to be flying towards the same area as Draco. "Go look somewhere   
  
else for the snitch, Potter. I'm not going to find it for you," Draco snapped in   
  
irritation but Potter just laughed.  
  
"Good. If you tried that, Gryffindor would never win!" The nerve! Draco   
  
opened his mouth to throw out a flashy retort but shut it again quickly. He had   
  
just spotted Goyle taking a massive swing at a bludger, aiming for Potter.   
  
Perfect.   
  
At that moment, a series of things happened. First of all, Potter spied   
  
the snitch and dove off towards it, Draco made an attempt to copy his movements,   
  
and Goyle swung at the stray bludger, sending it soaring across the field.  
  
Now would be a good time to mention Goyle's miserable aim.  
  
The bludger did not hit Potter. It didn't even come close. But it did hit   
  
Draco smack in the face and exploded in a sickening BOOM! As it made contact.  
  
A loud gasp arose from all on the pitch as blood sprayed from the general   
  
area that Draco had been. IN a motion that brought the phrase "Chicken with its   
  
head cut off" to mind, his broom continued to zoom across the flied for a few   
  
minutes before sensing a lack of direction and falling to the ground, causing   
  
what bits of Draco remaining on it to fall over onto the pitch. The crowd was   
  
completely disgusted and many of them were sick (including several Slytherins,   
  
but that could have been because Potter caught the stitch again.) In fact, only   
  
one row in the audience did not seem affected by the grotesque display on the   
  
Quidditch field and that was a group of Ravenclaws, perched midway up the   
  
stands.   
  
They sat there with semi-satisfied looks on their faces, evidence of a   
  
ploy not only well thought out but well executed as well. You see, they did pay   
  
attention in Muggle Studies and were well aware of dynamite and its explosive   
  
properties and shape shifting abilities. Their only regret in the end was that   
  
Draco would not be around for them to gloat. 


	8. Looks Can Kill

The Exploding Malfoys: Chapter 8, Looks Can Kill  
  
Anyone who saw Draco Malfoy in his room that afternoon would have said he  
  
was looking very disgruntled and so he was. But not for the reasons you'd  
  
suspect. He was not disgruntled because his father was in prison, or he had once  
  
again not come in head of his class or because Harry Potter still had a better  
  
broom than he (although on any given day, he did find these facts very  
  
disgruntling.) Rather, he was disgruntled about the fact that no matter how much  
  
he tried, he simply could not look sulky and disgruntled enough.  
  
For someone whose entire family prides itself on the way their eyes travel  
  
down the lengths of their noses and then curl up the lips at their edges to form  
  
a look that was altogether formidable, this was a serious problem. He'd started  
  
off slowly that morning after his mother had completely failed to notice how  
  
bored and sulky he was. He'd been lounging around the house looking very  
  
tiresome, haughty and irritable but had she made any suggestions on how he might  
  
entertain himself? Not a single one! That was when it occurred to him that maybe  
  
he's lost his touch and his facial expressions were no longer as potent as they  
  
had once been. So he'd marched up to his room on determined feet and sat himself  
  
down firmly in front of his mirror.  
  
All right. First things first: the eyes. Draco's were a steely blue, which  
  
made looking sulky and standoffish a sight easier. He narrowed them a bit and  
  
watched the effect on the rest of his face. Was he sulkier? No, it just made him  
  
look like he couldn't see to read the blackboard in potions due to the think  
  
smoke pouring out of Longbottom's cauldron. He frowned.  
  
Wait! A ha! Now this was progress. Narrowed eyes combined with turned down  
  
lips certainly had a sinister effect. But something was missing...some general  
  
sweep of the eyes that made the onlookers aware of the fact that Draco was  
  
insipid. What was it? His brain thought about this for a moment while Draco  
  
maintained his position in front of the mirror.  
  
"Perhaps," the mirror suggested, "it would help if you were to relax a  
  
little. No one can successfully look sulky on demand."  
  
Draco's neck bristled. "Relax? I'm supposed to relax when my vanity is on  
  
the line? If a clerk were to mistake me for some ignorant customer unable to  
  
tell the difference between vermillion and scarlet, will you suggest that I relax?"  
  
The mirror replied lazily, "Well, you are a Malfoy."  
  
"Yes and I have a reputation to live up to! I've been sulking around this  
  
house all bloody day and has anyone noticed? No! And I was doing my very best  
  
sulky look!"  
  
If the mirror had had eyes, he might have rolled them, Instead his next  
  
response tooko n a more dangerous tone not usually heard by mirrors. "Were sulky  
  
and haughty not the usual terms applied to you, perhaps people would find it  
  
easier to distinguish your sulky moods from all the others."  
  
"That could be the problem," Draco admitted. "My old expression has dulled  
  
and is no longer as effective as it once was. I must find a new one. And,  
  
mirror, you are to help me with this."  
  
The mirror groaned silently. A new, more effective expression of distaste  
  
from a member of the Malfoy clan? It'd been hanging on the wall of the Malfoy  
  
Manor for three centuries and in that time had seen more unpleasant looks than  
  
most mirrors could stand.  
  
Today, he wasn't so sure he'd be able to make it to four.  
  
Draco pushed his hair away from his eyes and stuck his nose up into the  
  
air. "It's something to do with the nose, isn't it? Father told me something  
  
about that once. Now let's see." He wrinkled his nose, looked down it all the  
  
way, unfurled the corners of his lips and waited for the mirror's critique.  
  
The mirror choked down an unmistakable laugh and Draco leveled a ferocious  
  
glare at it that caused all further thoughts of laughter and future happiness to  
  
vanish from the mirror's glass. In effect, the mirror had been stopped cold. The  
  
eyes! The nose! The lips! The angle of the head in tandem with his terrible  
  
hair! All of it combined created a facial expression of such terrible  
  
proportions the mirror was not sure it had ever reflected one like it before.  
  
And it cracked. At first, it was just a small crack, running down the  
  
middle and causing Draco to jump back a bit in surprise. But magical mirrors  
  
such as the ones in the Malfoy Manor do not just crack, as Draco soon found out.  
  
They explode.  
  
A hail of glassshards exploded from the mirror's frame and struck Draco in  
  
the face, some impaling him in the eye, cutting right through his eyelids. But  
  
the largest piece went directly into his neck. Draco had clearly not jumped back  
  
far enough and has his body and mind caught up with the unexpected change of  
  
events the deadly glare on his face turned into a look of shock. Surprise filled  
  
him. How? Why? What?? He gradually felt the feeling go out of his body along  
  
with nearly all of his blood, soaking into the beautiful old rug on his bedroom  
  
floor.  
  
The mirror, had it not been destroyed already, would have bee glad to know  
  
that the glare of hitherto unknown proportions of hatred, haughtiness and  
  
boredom was lost forever. 


End file.
